


Just That Lucky

by Twelve (Dodici)



Series: Comfort Zone [1]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Dysfunctional Family, Family Dinners, I wanted to write the fluffiest thing then Illumi happened, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, mention of pineapple pizza, the author regrets her very existence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-23 20:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18709510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dodici/pseuds/Twelve
Summary: Since Killua didn’t really get to choose neither his relatives nor his friends, he was bound to get lucky at least on one side.





	Just That Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> The premises of this thing are literally “okay but what about modern!Au and also roommates”, which obviously my brain outputted as “found family trope of doom”. Someone should probably confiscate my computer. 
> 
> Anyway, **the Zoldycks should be a warning on their own** , but please be aware that you’ll find discourses about mental conditions, mention of past child maltreatment, past animal torture, a bit of blood and general creepiness. And If you think I’ve missed any warnings, let me know!  
> Also, I’m afraid it’s already painfully obvious, but English isn’t my first language. If you feel like correcting me, please do. I’m trying (and failing XD) to improve.
> 
> Tl;dr: please beware of bad grammar and abusive families! Take care <3

Killua isn’t anxious at all. The first person to point out his totally nonexistent anxiety is going to _die_.

He skims through the next paragraph – mirror-neurons have been directly observed in primate species, blah blah – and strengthens his grip on the pencil.

“Wow, you’re still studying?”

The pencil _snaps_.

“Okay. Wrong question,” Leorio says, and one of his patented daddy-frowns is already crinkling his forehead. “Is everything alright? You seem a bit…”

Killua shoots him one of those dirty looks that made Milluki shiver when they were both kids and Killua was especially little. Leorio is brave to a fault, though, so he doesn’t bail out.

“Jittery,” he says, cautious.

Killua should kill him or at least punch him very hard in the face. But Leorio wears glasses and he’s also too fucking good of a person.

Otherwise, Killua is perfectly aware of being a bad person, but he’s trying really hard to behave like a functional human being these days. Killing Leorio would mean being hold accountable for eventual future deaths of all the people he would have saved or whatever it is that doctors do – he has no idea. If there’s something that has never really bothered him, was his own physical health, really. The mental one, that’s another whole problematic universe.

“I’m not jittery, it’s a stupid word,” he tells his book. It’s way more deserving of his annoyance. “Shouldn’t you be asleep or something?”

“Or something,” Leorio says, just before he lets out a big, jaw-dislodging yawn.

Killua looks at him properly for the first time: he’s disheveled, much more than his usual weirdly collected self. The guy loves to wear suits even when he goes to the pub. Right now he’s still in his scrubs – which Killua is pretty sure is totally inadvisable even if he is the one that doesn’t know shit about doctors – and seems to have forgotten how to operate simple items like kettles and tap water.

“I’m making tea, you want some?” Leorio says, and he also dares to throw a very clinical glance at him and the scattered splinters of his pencil. “Maybe chamomile?”

“Homeopathy is bullshit and what I really need is another coffee,” Killua rebuts, to his back.

Leorio yawns again, unimpressed, and puts the kettle onto the stove. Then he plops himself on the closest chair and keeps on yawning, eyes unfocused.

Killua isn’t going to finish reading that dumb paragraph anywhere in the near future, isn’t he?

He studies Leorio’s umpteenth attempt at breaking his own jaw and closes the book.

“That something… was it bad?” he asks then, because he’s stupid. Gon makes him stupid – this entire living arrangement makes him stupid.

He doesn’t really know how to move around these people: Gon has been his first contact with a real actual human aside from Alluka, and Killua _loves_ Gon. He loves him with an intensity that sometimes scares him to the core, because you’re not supposed to love someone so much – for someone to be the fulcrum of your entire day from the pettiest lunch-related choices to the biggest, life-changing decisions. Nothing about this is even remotely sane and he doesn’t even need a fucking Cognitive Science degree to know it – that didn’t stop him from trying anyway, because Killua has always been the smartest dumbest person in the room, at least when Gon himself isn’t present.

He learned a lot of stuff from Gon over the years. For example, he learned to just _ask_ : apparently, sometimes talking with people can be as simple as that.

“You want to talk about it?”

Leorio blinks and looks at him in a weirdly fond way, still a bit distant.

“Well, it’s… I don’t think you remember her, that old lady I was talking about the other day?”

Killua feels his own face making a grimace. He wasn’t listening properly, okay. Nanika was pretty distracting then, what with being so deeply intent on eating one single pea at a time. It’s the worst when she and Alluka switch right before dining, since they don’t like the same things and Nanika is way pickier with her food, especially any kind of green plants.

“The one that you revived from… Whatever that was?” he tries. Brilliant. He’s brilliant, he’s going to nail that fucking exam with all this incredible eloquence and intellectual prowess.

Leorio looks way more wistful than offended. He nods, a bit solemn.

“ARF, Acute Respiratory Failure.”

 “Yeah, that. You sounded pretty enthusiastic about that.”

Today the usual medical-related spark that inhabits Leorio’s eyes has some bitter quality to it. Killua recognizes the distinct need to call Gon right away to ask what the hell he should do about it – then, almost at the same time, he realizes that he should call someone _really_ useful like aunt Mito instead. Luckily enough, Leorio is pretty self-sufficient.

“People don’t survive ARFs. I mean… They do, sometimes, but eighty years old ladies with a medical chart the same length of an epic poem? And treated by a stupid intern who doesn’t know shit? They don’t.” He gesticulates uselessly in the air. “Apparently, however, they do. Only to die two days later of a nonsensical blood clot coming from who knows where.” His hands fall down, just like his shoulders. “So, yeah, I think I’m a bit… I know I didn’t really save her or anything. I know she would have died eventually. She was old and she wasn’t really going to get out of that bed, but still… Sorry kid, maybe I really am a whining old man like you always say.”

Killua is not gaping. He’s just breathing, it’s something everybody does, okay.

“You are an old man,” he says, just when the kettle starts whistling. “But you aren’t a stupid intern. This house is a fucking circus because you’re always helping dumber interns studying and shit, so-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence; the kettle steals the spotlight – thank God – and then Kurapika’s head comes out from the door, permanently tired eyes and impossibly neat hair attached. That is actual proof of him being an extraterrestrial being, because no-one should be able to look this put together with a sleep schedule like his. It’s the worst Killua has ever witnessed, and he lived with Milluki and his weird deep web-related habits for his whole life.

“Tea?” Kurapika inquires, like everything remotely resembling caffeine is going to save his soul and fuel his life for another day.

Killua can share the sentiment today. He glances at the book, then at the clock: fucking half past five and not only he hasn’t finished studying that dumb chapter, but he hasn’t even started the mental pep-talks that he needs to gather the energy to survive dinner.

“Of course,” Leorio says, already pouring steaming water into three mismatched cups. Killua instinctively snatches the Bulbasaur one. It’s Gon’s and since Killua is very stupid, it’s also oddly comforting. “Don’t tell me you have to work tonight.”

Kurapika is the recipient of the question. He nods and rests both hands around the cup like the temperature is soothing instead of scalding.

“You should really take a break sometimes, you know? Isn’t this the third night in a row?” Leorio insists.

“I’m doing Basho a favor. It’s just a couple hours, nothing big,” he says and then, in a smooth move to change the subject, he looks at Killua. “Where’s Gon? I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

Killua shrugs: maybe it’s cruel, but today Kurapika’s regular self-destructive routine doesn’t even register on his radar.

“At Kite’s. Apparently, there’s some, I quote, ‘exciting development’ with that weird species of ants they’re watching.”

“He’s always in that lab. At this rate, he’s going to write his final dissertation way before he’s able to pass his first-year math exam,” Leorio says.

“You two are the only ones who think he’s eventually going to pass it,” Kurapika adds, before a long sip.

Killua glares at him. Kurapika can be an absolute ass when he hasn’t slept in three days – that’s what should be called an extenuating circumstance, but still, Killua has his own today.

“He’s going to, he just needs the right motivation.”

“Are you going to bribe him or something?” says Leorio, way more lighthearted.

Killua grins, Bulbasaur cup firmly in his hands.

“Or something,” he answers, neutral.

Leorio, who’s the less neutral person in the world, gasps.

“Oh my god, was that an innuendo?”

Killua wisely decides not to answer and Kurapika sighs pretty loud.

“Anyway, if Gon is going to show up at some point and Alluka’s not staying at Palm’s, does it mean we’re all here for dinner? It must be, like, the first time since forever. We must order pizza!”

Leorio sounds so genuinely thrilled at the idea – of pizza, mostly, but Killua could legitimately say to know him good enough at this point, and he’s pretty sure Leorio is just happy at the prospect of spending time with some friends and maybe forget hospital related drama for a bit.

That’s why he feels almost bad when he has to be the one to kill his hype.

“Count me out, it’s Friday.”

“Oh,” Leorio says, and blinks. “Your family dinners? That’s a bummer… Can’t you skip it? Just this once.”

“You’ll have more fun without me,” Killua says. “Addams family or not, I should be studying anyway.”

“I have to say it, kid, I really don’t get it. You hate spending time with them, why do you keep bothering going? Alluka doesn’t.” Leorio is looking at him and since he can be quite oblivious and naïve, but for sure he isn’t stupid, he’s asking to get some precise explanation.

Killua didn’t exactly decide to keep things for himself for some specific reasons. Both Leorio and Kurapika have met Illumi and that is usually more than enough to at least guess how big of a conversation killer anything Zoldyck-related can be.

So, he shrugs and gave the most possibly edited answer.

“We have an agreement, sort of. I show myself up every Friday for dinner and they let me off the hook. It’s for the better, really, otherwise I should suffer through daily tragic phone calls from my mother bawling about how I am this terrible son who abandoned her.” He tells the last part feigning theatrical distress, hand on his forehead just like she would. Alluka and Gon would have laughed at the impression, but apparently that only makes Leorio frown more.

“But why you and not Alluka?”

“They don’t get along,” Killua says, and isn’t that the understatement of the century. “You know, because of Nanika.”

“I imagined something like that,” says Kurapika, still sipping his tea like it’s the only thing that is keeping him awake. It probably is, since it for sure isn’t this boring conversation.

“And it’s only for the better, really,” Killua says. He sounds way more earnest than he actually feels. “They think they’re the sane one. It’s like entering a madhouse, but one run by the patients.” He’s the only one laughing. Maybe he’s starting to understand why Gon has managed to make friends with these two weirdos in such a short time: they have his same attitude, all resolution in front of Killua’s own well-crafted bullshit.

Still, Killua’s crafting bullshit since the day he learned to speak, so he’s at a big advantage there.

“You keep an eye on Alluka for me, okay? Don’t make her chose some blasphemous pineapple pizzas. I’m counting on you two since Gon doesn’t understand shit.”

“Will do,” Leorio says, with a smirk that’s somehow stupidly reassuring. And unsettling too, because it means that Killua’s bullshit isn’t as well forged as he thought it to be.

 

*

 

Killua has a personal family chart in his head, color-coded and organized with RPG character sheets for each and every member, including weaknesses and abilities. He uses it to navigate through this kind of events like it’s a map – like this is just another adventure on some cool game like Greed Island, solo missions that he has to take to gather intelligence and allow his teammates to advance.

It still sucks. A lot.

“You’re late.”

“Good to see you too, Piggy.”

Milluki is already seething. Honestly, it must be exhausting, being so damn pissed all the time: but maybe Milluki is pissed only at him, so it’s not like Killua has actually ever seen him display any other genuine sentiment.

“You’re an insufferable brat and I have no idea why mother insist so much for you to come every time.”

“Because, Mill, family dinners are important.”

Here it is: Milluki is just a minion, nothing comparing to the real Big Bad Evil Guy. His hair swishes, his eyes creep out from the dark of the hall like he’s literally coming out from the shadows. It’s like watching a horror movie trailer.

Killua finds himself frozen on the spot, hopefully undiscernible from the door behind him. That’s closed now: no turning back. “Kill is an important member of our family, it should be natural for him desiring to spend time with us.”

Natural – _fucker_.

There’s nothing natural in Illumi: everything is calculated, accurately manufactured like a puppet show and Killua finds himself strangled in strings the exact same moment their eyes meet. It’s always been like that with Illumi and sometimes, every fucking Friday, Killua despairs that he will ever be able to break that particular spell.

“So, no butlers today? They’ve finally got time off or did you killed them and hide their corpses in the basement?” he asks, removing his coat with a chilling sense of dread, like he’s giving up a silly but much-needed barrier between himself and something scary, like that monster under his bed that Illumi forced him to face when he was four and didn’t know any better – didn’t know that monsters don’t need nighttime and claws to be scary, they can look like absolutely normal humans and you can share blood and uteruses with them, no choices allowed.

“No smart murderer would actually hide a dead body in his own basement, Kill, I thought you would know better,” Illumi says, no ounce of humor – which, actually, is exactly what people consider humorous around here. So be it: two can play that game and, unfortunately, Killua learned from the best.

“Yeah, sure, I forgot that the basement is where you keep your little sisters.”

“Salty much?” Milluki says, in a snort. “Let’s just go, I’m fucking starving, thanks to you.”

Killua makes a point of deadpanning at his dirty eye.

“Death by starvation should be the last of your concerns.”

That makes Illumi smile. He’s the only person Killua knows that can be even more unsettling doing that – him and fictional characters from comic books.

Anyway, the butlers are not dead – yet. Gotoh is still loyally standing inside the living room, pouring drinks into tall glasses like he does every single Friday.

Kalluto is already settled on one armchair, the face of someone who’s bored out of their mind. He barely greets him, much more concerned in playing with the straw. He’s drinking what appears to be orange juice from a long glass. Killua gets a glass from Gotoh too, but the content is different, so he has high hope for it to be something alcoholic.

Gotoh smiles subtly in one of his Gotoh’s ways and he’s again, as he’s been during the whole of Killua’s childhood, the less creepy person in the room. Killua tries to answer to his polite greeting, but he’s cut off by the descent of a shrieking pile of bows and ruffles.

“Kill, my dear, here you are!”

It’s simple, really: with his mother is mostly just called shots. Killua’s body knows what to do, how to react, even if it means standing very still while she insists on hugging him without any actual concern for his blatant discomfort.

She then kisses him on both cheeks and grabs his shoulders to study his face really close behind her omnipresent sunglasses.

“You look tired, my dear, are you eating properly? You should definitely come home more often, who knows what kind of…”

“Kikyo, let him breathe or he might change address again without consulting us. Hi Kill, long time no see.”

The distraction is enough for Killua to sneak off his mother clutches, which was probably Zeno’s plan all along. He, like Gotoh, has always been almost an ally in the never-ending, exhausting strategies Killua pursues not to succumb in this environment.

Still, Zeno ha so many frigging experience points that Killua is at lost with most of his stances on every single fact of life – not last, how much he was involved in the whole Alluka bullshit, which is still his main concern, thankyouverymuch.

So, Grandpa might be not exactly good, but at least he’s not bad. Killua will take ‘not bad’ over ‘murderous psychopathic older brother’ any day of the week and he for sure takes it on Fridays.

That’s exactly why he sucks it up and smiles.

“Hi Grandpa, is your memory starting to fail you? ‘Cause I was here last Friday too.”

Well, okay, maybe ‘suck up’ isn’t exactly his style. Zeno snorts, though, and takes a glass from Gotoh.

“My memory is perfectly good, you little brat. I’m just dreading this kind of meetings. Don’t all of you feel a lot like we’re in some dumb tv-shows?”

Milluki, who was stuffing himself with peanuts, tilts an eyebrow.

“No, Grandpa, tv-shows at least are fun.”

It’s… just like that.

Everyone is seated down on very expensive couches, drinking from very expensive glasses while they wait for Silva to do whatever it is that he’s doing before dinner. Giving his okay via Skype for some kind of missile test? Approving some implemented version of mustard gas?

Killua’s brain is honestly busier enumerating all the places he would rather be: it’s a pretty big list, given that Illumi has chosen to seat right beside him, an arm casually leaning dangerously close to Killua’s own shoulder. ‘On the deck of a sinking ship’ and ‘volunteering himself for a Hunger Game’ won pretty high spots.

He would like to text Gon, he would like to close his eyes and make his own mind evaporates, leaving an empty shell behind.

“We should get on a family vacation,” Illumi dares to say, like it’s a viable option.

Killua spits his drink and Kalluto falls off the armchair altogether.

“Kalluto dear, don’t sprawl like that. Posture,” Kikyo says, like that’s even remotely the problem. “That would be absolutely lovely, Illumi, but I’m afraid just as much difficult given your father's job. He’s just so busy in this period.”

Killua didn’t know there was a seasonal trend for weapons manufacturing; one never stops learning.

He’s still learned enough to refrain commenting on the matter, though.

It used to bother him, when he became old enough to conceive a causal connection between his family wealth and the never-ending war casualties dutifully reported by the news.

And still, since he’s such an awful person, that’s not even the real reason why he hates them all. He’s so fundamentally tarnished that, to him, the death of a couple million strangers is still less important than Alluka. Alluka that they all insist on ignoring – and Killua should be grateful for that, really, but he can’t restrain himself to sulk at least a bit behind his glass.

Thankfully, more or less, Silva chooses that moment to make one of his impressive entrances. Not that he’s actually trying or something: Killua’s father is just naturally impressive, casually almost, with his long wavy air and overall odd appearance, as distant from the one of the typical businessman as one can imagine – and, after all, his business has never been typical, even if way more common than good-hearted people like Gon or Leorio probably think.

“Sorry for keeping you, the king in East Gorteau has developed an all-consuming obsession for some kind of board game and he’s become a pain to talk directly too. What’s for dinner?”

Killua doesn’t hear Gotoh’s answer; he doesn’t really care what’s for dinner as long as it’s something that he can scarf down fast, so that he could use the two hours train to recompose himself and get back where he’s supposed to be – studying, drinking too much coffee, big brother-ing the only family member towards which he doesn’t harbor very unhealthy conflicting feelings.

“Kill,” the epitome of the conflict says, his dull eyes reading every single dumb thing Killua’s brain dared to produce without asking for permission first. It’s something Illumi has never been able to tolerate, in other people and Killua in particular: this nasty habit of being actual human beings with identities and thoughts he can’t really get to manipulate.

“Coming,” Killua says, because that’s what everyone is already doing: swarming through the hall to reach the dining room. 

“Good to see you, Kill,” Silva says. He has waited for him in front of the door: not dodging that one.

“Yeah,” Killua says, looking at him directly in the eyes just to prove a point, really.

Kalluto stops in his track.

“The noncommittal answer of doom,” he says. “You’re such a pro, brother.”

“You’ve such a death wish,” Killua rebuts. He earns himself a grimace that his father chooses to ignore like he’s always done with most of this kind of interactions between siblings.

“Everything alright I hope. How’s that friend of yours, what was his name again?”

Killua shots him a glance, but it’s useless, isn’t it? It’s not even an actual threat; those are Illumi’s deal. Silva, however, is just Silva, doing his Silva thing – the one over which you could crack your head up forever and never really get what he’s trying to accomplish.

“It’s Gon, dad. And he’s good. Actually,” he adds, in a sudden inspiration, “he sends his regards”.

It lasts less than the blink of an eye, but the dumbstruck expression is there on Silva’s face for that brief time.

Killua counts it as a victory.

 

*

 

His family builds bombs smarter than most politicians and Tony Stark-level technological weapons that can kill thousands, but there’s no emergency eject button on his chair. He should file a complaint.

Instead, Killua is stuck in front of a full plate and too many forks and knives, Illumi seated just right in front of him, watching carefully like he’s expecting some kind of physical change to appear on his face. Maybe he’s thinking that sharing a room with Gon would have changed his hair color to some weird green shade at this point.

At least he’s for now refraining from talking, even if it’s probably just because Kikyo is already doing enough talking for everybody else. Such futile attempts like stuffing his face with mashed potatoes aren’t going to save Killua from his mother’s inquiry.

“You should at least take a butler with you, it could be Canary. You like Canary.”

“Canary is cool, but I don’t need a butler.”

“But, dear, who is cooking and doing the groceries!”

“If you mean going to grocery shopping, I’m doing it. It’s like, basic human survival.”

“I don’t get it. I really don’t,” she says, and sniffs really hard behind a handkerchief.

“Please mom, don’t cry,” says Kalluto, and glance at Killua like he’s the one crying over grocery shopping.

Sometimes Killua wonders. He started when he met Gon, what now must be like… How many years ago? Gon that was so green and obnoxious, Gon that can be so pensive and perceptive – Gon that is so far from what people consider common sense and somehow, because of that, so open and non-judgmental.

Gon took whatever Killua always thought was normal and threw it in the trash, stomping on it with his bare feet. His light was so blinding, then, that every single one of Killua’s shadows was cast away, reduced to a pool at his feet – and made more evident, almost intolerable.

Gon took him in his home, where there were prayers before dinners and banters over algebra, helping chop vegetables and washing dishes, mandatory bath before bed and being tucked in. Killua has been tucked in for the first time in his life when he was twelve, by Gon’s aunt – mom.

After that, it was unavoidable. Killua started looking at his own mother, at his own family, and wondering.

They seem normal. When they’re gathered like that, keeping light conversation over dinner, they seem almost perfectly normal – not much more dysfunctional than any other family in the world. That was exactly what Killua has always thought when he was a kid, and this family was his entire world – his siblings the only other he had ever known.

Milluki’s sharp tongue, spying and blackmailing, throwing cruel pranks for the sake of it and then hide his hand. His mother, all overzealous, doting love and equally jarring, unpredictable punishments. Grandpa Zeno’s noncommittal way of caring, looking from above – never overstepping, never actually trying to connect. Not much unlike Silva and his way of watching from aside, surrounded by thick walls of rightfulness, no question asked, with Illumi as his henchman.

Illumi has always been the worst for Killua; always watching, teaching, guiding, knowing what’s better – what’s wrong and what’s right; always there, whispering lies so reasonable that, deep down, Killua’s reptile brain still believes in most of them.

Illumi’s violence and, way worse, its anticipation, like a promise – like a self-fulfilling prophecy – is still tainting every single step Killua thought he had done by himself.

“What,” Kalluto barks, hostile, because apparently Killua’s eyes were fixated on him.

“You’re still going to school, aren’t you?” he asks, a bit harsher than he intended.

Illumi shots him a glance that’s like a needle right between his eyes, but Killua doesn’t cave in.

“He is, top of his class,” Silva says, in a sedating tone. Killua isn’t looking at him, though.

Kalluto returns his look and nods, attentive.

“I don’t hate it,” he says.

Kalluto must know that Killua was the one who insisted on it; he has already let down one sister for too long before actually taking action. He’s been an awful big brother for Alluka during their whole childhood, but Kalluto is still young and he’s smart: spending at least half his weekdays surrounded by diverse people is already working wonders for him – Killua stalks him on Facebook sometimes and Kalluto’s profile is actually almost indistinguishable from that of any other teenager out there. He even seems to enjoy anime and cosplay.

“Nonsense,” Kikyo says. “Your older brothers were all homeschooled and turned out just fine”.

“Most of them,” Milluki snorts. “What is that you’re doing in that public university again, Kill?”

Milluki fucking loves this subject; it’s one that elicits reaction even in their father forehead.

During the last year, Silva has acclimated himself to a lot of Killua’s questionable choices, but his studies and his stance on Alluka’s condition still puzzle him to the point of downright disapproval.

“Isn’t it psychology?” Illumi says, cold and precise, like a needle threading his way on light cloth. Psychology, he says, like it’s some nonsensical word; some toy that Killua stubbornly refuses to give up on the sole purpose of antagonizing him – like everything Killua does and ever will do is nothing else that some kind of childish tantrum.

“It’s still Cognitive Science. Like the last fifty-hundred times you asked,” Killua retorts. Like that fucker hasn’t memorized his entire fucking timetable even before Killua himself.

“I see. They really seem to pull new degrees out of thin hair these days. Isn’t that the exact same thing, though?” Illumi insists. He’s gingerly twitching the knife between his fingers. “It’s really pitiful, you know. Giving yourself the illusion that you could somehow fix that poor, demented thing.”

It hurts. It’s hot and cold, it rushes from toes to his head and makes his vision blurs. The room is shaking like the chandelier’s has been replaced by a strobe light and Killua is doing his best just to not explode in sparks.

He knows he has reopened those stupid, childish old wounds on the palms of his hands. He can feel the nails digging deeper, but he can’t stop himself, he doesn’t want to. It’s almost soothing, the pain; it’s always had the power to clear his mind – and maybe that’s another level of fucked up, really.

“Alluka isn’t a thing,” Killua hears himself saying, voice unsteady. “Nanika, too. Neither of them is demented and sure as hell neither of them needs _fixing_.”

“And this is your very qualified opinion, I guess,” Illumi says, head tilted to the side, almost playful.

And he is, playful: it’s just a game for him, always has been. It makes Killua seething.

“If you must know, brother,” he spits out, “in my very qualified opinion, you’re a fucking psycho.”

“Enough.” Silva’s voice is pure blunt force. He doesn’t need to raise his tone, never had. Silence falls on the table like it’s a sack full of dead snails, sluggish and rotten.

Killua hates it, hates him. He’s had complicated feelings towards his father his entire life: a weird kind of respect, a mutual trust between them about Killua’s own agency, something he’s never obtained when it came to his mother or Illumi; but those are compartmentalized sentiments. Nothing could really change the fact that Silva was the one who decided upon Alluka’s treatment – or lack of one that was proper – back when she was the weird child with those scaring, violent outbursts; when she wouldn’t recognize any of them and scream and hurt herself and only Killua would be able to get her to calm down.

“Maybe you would like to know that Alluka’s doing great. Thanks for asking, everybody,” he snarls. It’s stupid, Alluka herself would smack him in the head – even Nanika would cry and throw a fit at how stupid he’s being right now, how downright harmful toward himself and the carefully constructed peace he's managed to build for their life during this whole last year. Heck, during his whole teen years until he got old enough, strong enough to claim his rights as individuals for himself and his sisters. But he’s so done, honestly? He shouldn’t be here, not anymore.

He should be studying those stupid psychology bullshits that interest him, he should be scolding Alluka for choosing some ominous pineapple pizza for dinner and making himself being scolded by Leorio for scarfing down his slices too fast while Kurapika scolds the both of them for being too loud. He should be sprawled on the gigantic pouf with Gon, fighting over french-fries, fighting for balance, fighting for every single stupid thing that Gon makes so much better just by existing.

This isn’t his home anymore; it’s barely still his family.

“Kill, don’t you dare-”

“I have to go,” he says, cutting his mother off. He’s already standing, but the sound of the chair scratching onto the pavement was completely lost on him. “You’re right, Grandpa, this feels a lot like a dumb tv-show and I’m fucking tired of watching.”

Zeno looks up at the ceiling, already resigned. Typical Grandpa, really.

 “You’re really going to theatrically leave in the middle of dinner?” Illumi says, blinking slowly. “There’s no reason to be so dramatic, just sit down.”

“You called your sister-”

“You’re being ridiculous, Kill, we were just talking.” He sounds slightly annoyed and so completely sincere, like he wasn’t there less than one minute ago – like Killua is exaggerating, _lying_. “Now sit down and finish your dinner, you’re upsetting everybody.”

He almost does. He almost – Illumi is just so calm and collected all the time; he’s certain, because he is right and you are wrong: that’s how things are, like it’s some kind of natural law.

Killua almost does it: sit down, again, finish his dinner and then waiting for ten o’clock – not too early, not too late – and go. Just running away until he catches the last train. Until next Friday – rinse and repeat forever.

“I’m the one who’s upset,” he says instead. “And you usually don’t give a flying fuck, you never had. So, breaking news, if the results from this kind of ridiculous events are for everyone to get upset, let’s just stop.”

“That wasn’t the agreement,” Silva says, and Kikyo gasps in her handkerchief.

“Yeah, well, I don’t care. What are you going to do, shove me in the basement like some nutcase and leave me there until I forgot what sunlight looks like? Because that’s what you did with your daughter and it didn’t turn out like such a great plan,” he spits. He’s boiling – adrenaline pounding in his head, flowing through his veins like electricity. It’s scary – it’s exhilarating. “But you can’t do anything at all, can you? I have a home, I pay my bills. I don’t need you.”

Kikyo is sobbing now.

“How could you say such hurtful things, we are your family!”

Yeah, they are. It’s exactly why it’s so difficult to let them go, always have been.

KiIllua looks at them all: Kalluto immobilized with his fork raised midway toward his mouth; Milluki growling, annoyed; Zeno still eating like this was the expected outcome; Silva’s crinkled forehead while he thinks – because everything can be solved by strategizing. Even Kikyo, ready to clutch at his arm to physically prevent him to abandon her.

And Illumi, too. The one Killua’s always looked up to – the one who declared so carelessly to love him the most, the one who lead their games as a kid and decided who would win and who would lose, what were the prizes and what the penalties; the one who would pin living squirrels to the ground and force Killua to stay and watch while he skinned them with such a calm demeanor, like it was some important task that had to be carried out with the utmost accuracy.

He’s going to say something; Killua can see his lips parting and he’s ready – he’s…

“Feel free to go, Kill.”

It’s Silva. Illumi shuts up even before starting and Killua almost falls back on the chair.

“Silva, what are you-”

“Leave it, Kikyo,” he says, and shrugs. “This isn’t a jail, if Kill doesn’t want to be here, we shouldn’t obligate him.”

Well. Okay. What? Killua’s brain fights for a bit, searching for a direction. He needed to lean on the table for a moment and now he has smeared a faint trace of blood on the tablecloth.

“Listen. I know that you love me and I think we might work things out someday, but right now…”

Right now, all he can hear and see when they talk is Alluka back when they were children, slurred speech and unfocused eyes when she was so medicated she couldn’t stay awake for more than half an hour at a time.

Alluka who’s so brilliant and lively, who stress bakes chocolate cookies and then give them away as a gift to every single person she meets. Who helps Gon out with math even if she’s still in high school. Alluka whom teachers praise for being such a gifted, loving child and ask why Killua is the one coming to all the parents’ meetings.

He’d like to explain that it’s because her own parents don’t know her, they never got the time too: she wasn’t useful, she was a hindrance and they treated her as such. They only saw Nanika and labeled her as something ugly that had to be erased instead of recognizing her for the scared child she is.

Maybe someday. Really, Killua isn’t strong enough to think that he’ll be alright cutting their family completely out – that’s never what he really wanted. But apparently it’s what he needs right now.

And to break out of there as fast as possible.

“Sorry for the dinner.”

“I’m sure Mike will be delighted by your leftover,” Zeno says, like it’s nothing.

It’s almost surreal; given that the last time he openly confronted them he had to practically kick the door while he carried Alluka in a stupidly dramatic bridal style, this is definitely anticlimactic.

Silva’s voice is still in his ears while Killua walks down the hall to the entrance: he’s trying to calm Kikyo down, tone steady and reasonable.

But the most uncanny thing are Illumi’s eyes – they remain glued to Killua’s head even when he’s before the door.

“It was a pleasure to see you, master Killua,” Canary says, smiling. “I hope I won’t see you again for a bit. Please give my greeting to master Alluka and Gon.”

Killua blinks at her. Twice.

“Will do,” he says. “You should really come to visit sometimes… You know, as a friend. Alluka bakes the best cookies.”

Her smile doesn’t falter one bit; she’s just too cool, really.

She bows again in front of the open door and her pigtails bounce.

“That’s really kind of you, master Killua. I’ll think about that.”

“Anytime,” Killua says, and he’s out.

Just like that, the door shuts behind his back.

The wind catches him off guard. It blows over his coat and slips under the hem of his shirt, damp against his skin. The cold is soothing on the palm of his hands, speckles of dried blood scattered around crescent-shaped scratches – he’s just so stupid, really, so much for being an adult, being collected, remaining calm. Alluka is going to worry and Nanika will cry and Gon… Gon will muster up that empty, scary face that is like a protective film against the spikes of his blind fury.

Sometimes Killua really feels like he’s the worst – a walking, talking problem disguised as the caretaker who insists on being, so that he doesn’t have to feel bad about how much trouble he’s always associated with.

He buries his hands in his pockets and he starts running, hell with the wind slamming on his forehead as he hit the ground – every step stronger and faster until the mansion and the yard and the gates are blurring in the periphery of his vision like some mangled post-apocalyptic ruins.

He’s still running when he’s down the hill and back into civilization and out again through empty roads until the station shows itself, a bluish heap washed in dirty lamplights against thick, thundering clouds.

He jumps on the train at the last call, doors closing shut behind him the same moment he stomps on board.

There’s a stinging, gummy sensation in his throat and ears, a beginning of sinusitis that burns with every scrambled breath. Killua starts laughing, head pressed against the metal pole between two carriages, and can’t really get to stop until the conductor starts pestering him on his ticket.

Then it’s one hour and forty-seven minutes of train ride, before walking underground in the mess of echoing steps that is the subway. Catch another train, whistles in one ear and through the other, hands hidden at the bottom of his pockets – Leorio’s voice is warning him about germs and infections on public transport.

There’s someone playing the squeezebox even at this hour? Killua has about one-hundred and fifty jenny in his pockets. If what they say about hygiene and money is true, he is already doomed to a painful death by septic shock; better try and buy himself a spot in heaven with his spare change – the old lady with the squeezebox smiles, crooked teeth and soft eyes.

“Rough day, sonny?” she asks, when Killua’s stomach grows loud in the pause between songs.

“A bit, I guess,” says Killua.

She nods like she has him already figured out. Maybe she has, it’s not like Killua is that much complicated, really – not more than anybody else on this godforsaken excuse of a planet.

“But there’s no finer thing than returning home after a long day, isn’t there now?”

Killua blinks, twice. It’s the second time tonight.

The loudspeakers announce his stop in that spooky, crackly voice and Killua grins.

“Nope, there definitely isn’t”.

 

*

 

Coming home is a ten minute walk on concrete; blending right into the stonewalls to avoid being run over by cars who seem to forget the traffic law as soon as the clock strikes midnight.

It’s six flights of stairs because the lift is broken. Killua takes two steps at a time, he pauses only when he almost splats on the doormat, keys in hand, ready to stealth-walking to his and Gon’s room – ready to die before waking him up.

He usually fails, because Gon sleeps like a dog, one ear raised, always prepared to scoot over on his bed so that Killua can spend a lot of time whispering about why sleeping on the same mattress like when they were twelve is such a stupid, painful idea.

Not tonight, though. Tonight something isn’t right.

Light is seeping through the slip below the door, a thin beam cutting his shoes in half.

His brain is really fast at coming up with hypothesis – always been – but not faster than Alluka – never been.

“Brother,” she explodes, door open. “You’re early!”

It’s so similar and different from that of his mother, the hug, and it freezes Killua on the spot for a split second – enough for Alluka to do one of her contrary, surprisingly _right_ things. She squeezes him a bit more fiercely and Killua’s eyesight is covered in dark locks of choppy hair; her soft, cool hands just there, grabbing at his shirt delicately like Killua is some kitten instead of a fully grown adult.

Killua breathes in flowery shampoo and onion rings and then squeezes back.

“Yeah, I kinda cut and run before dessert,” he reports, dutifully. “Hope you left me some awfully flavored scraps of pizza.”

“My pizzas are always awesomely flavored, brother, you’re just envious I have the guts to try different things,” she says, smiling in his ear just like Killua knows he’s doing in hers.

Maybe he is, scared. She’s going to kill him just by growing up in this independent, well-adjusted human being. And what’s worse is that Killua is pretty much okay with the concept.

“Killua, I knew it!”

Killua sees green way before his ears catch the words. Then the world whirls while he’s snatched away from a giggling Alluka and crushed in a different kind of hug, one that is just as stupidly safe and lingers on him like Gon’s arm, draped on his shoulders.

“Guys, I was right! I recognized your steps,” he adds, for Killua alone, eyes so bright and fixed on his. Inside his, because Gon is kinda always _there_ , in a way that isn’t stupidly erotic like Leorio damn brain would think – and so much more severe. Gon is pinned to Killua’s heart way deeper than any of Illumi’s stinging attempt at brainwashing.

“Not so loud,” says Leorio, his head a spiky mess and his arm not-so-casually resting on the backrest so that Kurapika’s neat bob cut is sprouting from it like a fungus. “Pitou is going to bite our heads off if we wake up little Meruem one more time.”

They all simultaneously shiver and glance up at the ceiling. Pitou, the single parent living right over them, has made a point of explaining in detail where little Meruem’s cradle is unfortunately located – and also what they're going to do to their windpipes if they don’t cut the noise during nap hours.

“Anyway, Killua, apparently Gon could recognize your steps from down the road, which, according to Melody’s perfect ear, shouldn’t even be possible,” Kurapika says, diverting his gaze to the television. “And at this point I’m not even questioning the patented Zoldyck telepathy.”

Alluka gives him two thumbs up and giggles until she’s once again seated on the carpet, right beside where open cartoons of pizza lie scattered over the coffee table.

“I’m well aware that your friends have the uncanny ability to defy natural laws on a daily basis, Kurapika. I’m not even surprised anymore,” says Melody. She’s sitting on the only armchair like she’s always been there – Killua really doesn’t mind: he loves Melody, like everyone that knows the level of difficulty coming with being friends with Kurapika.

“Aw, Melody, now we’re Kurapika’s friend? Give us some credit, we’re sharing french-fries, it’s one of the requirement to be friends,” says Leorio, and shoves a handful inside his mouth.

“Okay,” Killua says, once his brain has caught up with the whole picture and he’s sure his retinas didn’t simply get scorched because he watched Gon’s smile too close one time too many. “What the hell is going on here, do you know what time is it?”

“It’s Saturday,” says Alluka, like it explains everything from the origin of the universe until this very day – which is still Friday in Killua’s mind, thankyouverymuch. No meaning in arguing about that while she’s eating an onion ring from her own ring finger, though.

“It’s past midnight and we’re starving,” says Gon, who is practical and also convinced that they share a body apparently.

He’s also right, though, and Killua is weak – that’s exactly why he lets himself being lead towards the legit heavenly smell of pizza. He’s already eating a slice when he realizes he’s sitting half on the gigantic orange pouf and half on Gon’s leg. He elbows him in the ribcage to accept the coke Kurapika is handing without even being asked.

It’s a bit surreal.

Rationally, Killua knows they didn’t _plan_ to wait for him: Gon and Alluka may have – they’re absurd like that – but the others are just there.

Basho didn’t need to be replaced anymore and at that point Melody was already there to pick up Kurapika; Leorio has fallen asleep on the couch until Alluka got home from Palm’s to get some homework done. Gon lost the bus and decided to run there like he hadn’t been awake since sunrise and then he needed to shower.

Apparently, that’s exactly the recipe for a very late dinner. Apparently, Killua is just that lucky.

Even without the television bubbling about the Most Creepy Castles in the United States of Saherta in the background, the room manages to be way louder than the entirety of Killua’s childhood home.

There are no chairs and tables, Alluka’s sitting close enough that Killua can tickle her back with his foot. The only reason why there aren’t plastic plates is because Gon has Opinions on the ecosystem – but there aren't real plates either, just napkins and a lot of crumbles.

“I don’t get it, I think Killua has the softest footsteps I’ve ever heard?”

“Yeah, but they’re _his_ , you know? So they kinda stand out anyway, I think?”

Alluka watches from Melody to Gon like their words are made of some tangible material floating around.

“Brother was always sneaking in my room at night when we were kids,” she says, like her room wasn’t just a cell pad full of dolls. Killua got some of his worst, most worth it punishments for that.

The Vanlania Castle is only a couple hundred kilometers from Yorkshin City and apparently is the third most haunted place in the whole continent.

“Do people really believe in this nonsense?” says Kurapika, eyes fixated on the screen.

Leorio has propped his feet on the table with complete disregards for the high proximity of edible material.

“Are ghost really that unbelievable? This world is huge and full of stuff we don’t understand. Like Gon,” he says.

Kurapika deadpans at him so bad that Alluka chokes on a huge string of mozzarella and Killua has to pat her back with his heel.

Gon blinks.

“Me?” he says, and then promptly changes direction like the scatterbrained wild creature he is. On the pouf, Killua lets himself being bounced around by his excited movements. “Oh, you would never guess what happened today- those ants! They ate Sherman!”

“I read a book like that, once,” says Alluka, who’s always been interested in science fiction.

“Do I have to be the one to ask who Sherman is?” says Kurapika.

“Was,” Killua corrects him, just for the sake of it.

“Oh, one of the rats,” Gon says, and Leorio grumble.

“You’re not supposed to name the rats, Gon. You’ll grow attached.”

Killua sighs.

“You’re saying that like he isn’t already. So, how was it?”

“What?” Kurapika asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“The ceremony. You did the funeral, I know you did.”

Gon inhales and then lets out half a laugh; the way he pushes Killua feels a lot more like he’s petting him and he has to keep back from purring – otherwise Alluka and Leorio would give him shit forever.

“Well, there wasn’t really a body left to bury, those ants are pretty voracious. But we burnt some remains with the Bunsen beak and we scattered the ashes in the greenhouse, said a few words.”

“About Sherman, the lab rat,” Kurapika says.

“He was a good rat? Always the first one at figuring out labyrinths, you know.”

No need to laugh, really. Gon is just like that – so unapologetically attached to everything and everyone that happen to cross his path. Killua has heard someone call him a saint, before they actually recognize his own brand of crazy.

He’s single-minded, painfully so, and Killua has been on the receiving end of that fixation – and then outside it – enough time to know full well how much Gon can be the most difficult person on earth while being the simplest one.

Still, something that never changed in his mind is the awareness, so simple and yet so scary, that Gon is that one single person on the whole planet that Killua wants to fall asleep onto.

He succeeds, because pizza and also castles in the background and Melody humming softly to herself. Everything is clouded, air puffed and sleepy just like the inside of his brain.

Killua blinks, trying to asses at least his spatial orientation, since the temporal one is now declared MIA.

Alluka’s back is still attached to his calf, just like her head is now attached to the coffee table, and she’s snoring softly beside piles of pizza boxes.

Gon’s hair is a spiky mess under his nose. Killua breathes in it and almost sneezes, chest trembling.

His eyelids are lead and so are his hands, but there’s the faint tracing of fingers over his fingers – skin on skin and sure, light movements.

Gon is really good at handling animals; Killua is sure it’s one of the reasons he’s so good at handling him.

He looks down over the warm, thick skull that’s trying to get lodged in his sternum. It moves, hair tickling his nostril.

“I think I hate them,” Gon says, so quiet it’s almost lost over the ongoing bubbling about creepy castles that’s still coming from the television.

Killua jolts his hand free, covering the scuff marks on his palm. His fingers are way more useful if he can use them to scratch Gon’s dumb head anyway. He pats his forehead when he pouts; from upside down like that it looks almost like a smile and Killua’s still enough half asleep to find it funny.

“Yeah, I think I hate them to,” he says rather than laughing. It’s dangerous to laugh when you have an entire human head sitting on your ribs and you yourself are seated on a very unsoundly stable pouf.

It must be full of, like, foam? They should open it and find out. He should suggest it right now, as a bedtime activity. Nanika would be delighted, she loves taking things apart, and Alluka would concede because she low-key enjoys it too.

“I don’t have to go there again next Friday, though. I kinda snapped,” he said instead. “Oh, and Canary says hi.”

“I like Canary,” says Gon, but he’s still pouting. “You shouldn’t ‘have to’ do anything if you don’t want to.”

“So can I just, like, go to my next exam completely unprepared and still pretend to get a full score?”

Gon laughs, so soft over his chest, like he could vibrate right through Killua’s skin and bones and make himself comfortable in the cavity of his heart.

“Isn’t that what you usually do?” Gon asks.

“Not really, I do study sometimes.”

“You read books. And then magically books make sense to you, it’s like a superpower… Kurapika’s the same, you guys are awesome.”

Kurapika looks way too worn out to be awesome, but Leorio is still looking at his face like it’s some kind of very meaningful Renaissance painting. Leorio himself seems to be awake just out of stubbornness; he has to remain upright so that Kurapika’s sleepy head can rest on the crook of his shoulder.

“That’s what books are for, you dummy,” Killua says, around a big yawn. “And book-smart isn’t the only kind of smart, you know? A lot of people need hands-on approach to learn stuff, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Trials and errors like poor, old Sherman,” Gon says, grinning and frowning simultaneously. Killua smooths his forehead with one finger. “But you’ve tried enough times, I think. Now it’s their turn, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think they get that there should be some kind of, like, mutuality in this thing.”

“In being a family?” Gon says, and goggles at him upside down. “That’s the basis. Aunt Mito said that.”

Aunt Mito is always right, that much Killua knows. He grins and pokes between his eyes.

“Don’t wear yourself out on this shit. Been there, done that. Not worthy,” he says. “And, you know, at this point I think I’m just immune to that kind of poison.”

 “That doesn’t mean it’s good for you,” says Gon, stubborn.

Killua doesn’t know what to make out of that weird, soft ball that is suffocating him from the inside. So he grumbles in a noncommittal way and sighs into spiky, gravity-defying hair.

“Whatever, Gon,” he says. “You and Alluka being at least a couple hundred kilometers from them, that’s what’s good for me.”

Gon heads shift, like his whole body; the only reason why they’re not going to fall from that pouf is that Gon is accustomed to extreme sports since childhood – Killua has never seen anyone climbing trees like he can.

He rolls and the pouf rolls with them, waving, until Gon’s face is in front of Killua’s and the rest of their body is sprawled onto one another, property of limbs undiscernible.

Killua almost starts laughing – the breathe catches in his throat when Gon eyes look into his, so big and made of molten metal.

“And what’s good for me,” he says, “It’s for you to be right by my side, Killua.”

Killua blinks. And _kicks_.

The pouf rolls and Gon falls, still clutched around Killua’s back – they fall together, the pouf squeezes away and the coffee table comes in collision too fast.

Alluka jolts awake and screams, but Killua is already screaming, so who cares.

“Fuck, Gon you can’t say stuff like that! What’s wrong with you!”

Gon is gasping for air, one elbow inside of a pizza box.

“But, Killua! It’s the truth!”

“Can you two just act like normal boyfriends already?” Alluka asks, while she crawls away from the range of Killua’s fists to curl up beside Melody’s legs. She rests her head on her knees and Killua is quite sure is Nanika the one who purrs when Melody starts petting her hair, still humming.

“It’s the normal part they’re failing at,” Kurapika growls, and pulls his legs back on the couch, so sleepy that he doesn’t seem to realize he’s practically wrapped around Leorio now.

“This is really ironic, Kurapika. And funny, too,” Melody says, to Leorio dumbfounded face and Kurapika drowsy, oblivious expression. “I really like spending time with you guys.”

Killua’s foot is still pressed onto Gon’s mouth, since there’s a foot there anyway always, better as well be his.

He looks at the mess of stranded leftovers, sleepy oblivious people and comfy furniture gathered with no fashion sense at all. _People_ gathered with no sense at all – he and Alluka and Nanika and Gon, always Gon, and Leorio and Kurapika and Melody, too. Everyone loves Melody, she’s so wise.

Killua feels a bit wise too, tonight. Illumi’s eyes, his mother clutches, are far far away – his choices are his. He chose this.

No reason to get embarrassed now. Pitou is going to kill them all anyway.

“Yeah, me too,” he says, content, and Gon strangles him in another hug. 

 

 

 


End file.
